


Desperate Measures

by Laeviss



Series: Wranduin Kink Time [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Blood gem phone sex, Chromie is also trans of course, Cis Anduin, Discussion of dragon breeding but no actual breeding, Double Penetration, Exhaustion, Infertility, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, The kind of dub con that tends to come with in heat fics but nothing too extreme, Trans Male Character, Trans Wrathion (Warcraft), Vaginal Fisting, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Wrathion goes into his first heat while working in the Heart Chamber and must travel to Stormwind to find some semblance of relief.
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin Kink Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108499
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	Desperate Measures

The longer Wrathion stands in the Heart Chamber, the greater his discomfort becomes. What starts as a faint wetness in his silk undershorts becomes a noticeable problem every time he moves or shifts his weight. He leans into the alcove where his journal hangs suspended by titanic magic, then paces laps around the circular room. 

Narrowly missing a champion’s shoulder when he passes around MOTHER, he flusters and averts his gaze. Heat blossoms on his cheeks, and though he knows most mortals don’t smell well enough to sense it, his stomach still tightens and his legs press desperately together. 

He tries thinking of everything—the void, Anduin’s punch, the dust that used to coat his belongings in his cave back in Nagrand, the ungodly loud slurping that filled the Tavern common room whenever Tong made his famous noodles. No matter how unappealing, disturbing, or humiliating the images he conjures, the tug and throb between his legs will not abate. 

Licking his lips, he taps his toe on the glass floor. Opposite him, leaning against the gate, Kalecgos lifts his blue head to look at him and his pale cheeks turn a vibrant red. 

He freezes, then backs away. Kalec clears his throat and plunges his hands into the satchel hung from his belt, shuffling and reshuffling scrolls that are already perfectly arranged. 

Every step back the prince takes clicks and echoes through the chamber, until he has crossed over the dais, passed in front of Magni, and put enough space between him and the other dragon to catch his breath and will his thighs to stop quivering. 

Kalec’s gaze moves down the deep ‘v’ of his collar to the sash wrapped around his hips. After gritting his teeth and sucking down a breath, Wrathion takes note of Kalec’s frumpy white tunic, his too-blue hair, chiding himself for the ache building between his legs at the sight of him. Foolish. Embarrassing. Not to mention the prince’s own boyfriend waiting on the other side of the world, as lovely as ever, and with a certain touch that always makes him—

On his next step, Wrathion whirls around. The gnome behind him lets out a squeak and a gasp, fumbling with her dress and staring up his body with widening eyes. 

Staring down into her flushed face, he purses his lips. She hides her cheeks in her hands and shakes, her buns bouncing above her ears and her voice jumping an octave as she whispers, “Ah, Wrathion! Ah, I didn’t see you there! Hello!”

His heart nearly pounds out of his chest. His lower body twitches treacherously, and he stumbles back. “Ah, Chromie. My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude, I simply—”

“No, no, it’s all right!” She gasps out. Her gaze flies to the front of his pants, which are, unfortunately, very much at eye level for her. Jamming his thighs together and pulling closed his coat, he bites his bottom lip. Heat prickles at the base of his neck, but his face runs cold. 

“I—ah—I’m afraid I’m not feeling well—”

“Oh no, well, maybe you should step outside for a minute, or twenty—”

“My thoughts exactly. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to need to get—”

He doesn’t finish, stepping around her and breaking into a jog when he makes it to the hallway. She lets out a stilted giggle, and Kalec mutters something Wrathion can’t make out through the rush of blood in his ears. The moment he steps through the portal, he shifts and beats his wings. Sand scatters in all directions off the platform. One of the shamans on the ridge calls his name, but he ignores them, soaring up into the sword-darkened sky, swooping over the dunes and towards the hills. 

When the warm daytime air rushes down his belly, the wetness between his draconic legs tingles. Even in his true form, his scales have parted and his slit is fully exposed to all who might glance his way. The long, swollen nub within has pressed out, and when he moves and the wind brushes its tip, it twitches and aches for more. 

By the time he makes it to the cluster of canvas tents poking up from between the rocks, he can’t catch his breath. The moment his talons skid through the sand, he shifts, and stumbles onto his human feet. No one is waiting outside, but he tugs at his coat and forces back his shoulders regardless, preparing for anyone who happens to peek their head out and see him.

His own tent waits at the far end of the camp, distinct from the others in its purple hue and the silks draped over its door where the others have simple canvas flaps. Catching them on the back of his hand, he slips inside. He flings himself down on the pile of pillows he has created and fumbles in his small pack for a certain device…

In his haste, he spills the contents of the sack onto the dirt. A quill and the glass pipe he procured from the sin’dorei clack together. A smooth, crimson blood stone tumbles between them, and then the slim, white device he bought at the steam pools on a whim. 

He snatches it, flicking the switch. It hums and trembles to life in his clammy palm. Scratching his hip in his haste to tug down his pants and shorts, he leaves them bunched up above his knees, before plunging the device into the gap and pressing up into his wetness.

A sharp cry pours from his parted lips. He throws back his head and arches his back as the device moans against the underside of his cock. His legs fall open, and his body shakes. A jolt passes through him, and he throbs, rolling his hips against the head of the vibrator, shoving his fingers into his hole. 

He gasps and skids back into the pillows. A sudden clench snatches and drags him into its hold, leaving no space for the images and stories he usually relies on at moments like this. There is only the heat building between his legs, the juices soaking his fingers, the twitch and throb and ache of his clit going rigid and his body quaking, then seizing. 

A burst of wetness fills his palm, running down his wrist and leaking onto his blankets. He cries, and the vibrator slips from his fingers to shake against his trembling leg. Curling his toes, he lifts the small of his back off the floor, then sinks, boneless, but completely unsatiated. 

Fumbling with the items beside him, he grasps the pipe and considers shoving it into his heat. He thinks better of it, reaching instead for the blood gem dulled in the shadow of his tent. 

Grasping it and bringing it to his forehead, he shudders, and squeezes closed his eyes. His clit twitches, and the wet stain on his blankets spreads up under his legs. 

After fumbling with the switch of his goblin device, slipping once before managing to silence it, he closes his eyes and summons every ounce of strength to steady his breath. The gem against his forehead glows, transporting him to a room with austere white columns and a wide table positioned in the center of a blue and gold rug.

A lithe, blond figure leans against it, with a gruffer, paler man positioned at his right shoulder. 

“They were last spotted outside of Warsong Hold. If that’s the case, they might be headed to Sholazar Basin, or east, to—”

‘ _Wrathion?_ ’ Anduin’s internal voice cuts across Genn’s lower murmur.

‘ _Ah, sorry to interrupt, my dear._ ’ Wrathion apologizes through his haze. Scooting up to sitting, he crosses his legs, painfully conscious of the puddle hidden beneath them. 

At the front of his mind, Anduin’s brows furrow, and his lips draw into a tight line. ‘ _Did something happen…?_ ’

‘ _Ah, in a manner of speaking._ ’

‘ _Wha—?_ ’

Wrathion peels back the enchantment used to conceal his end of the connection. His thighs and bunched up pants, the vibrator hastily thrown to the side, the wetness that has coalesced between his folds, and the sweat soaking his brow. The ragged rise and fall of his chest shakes their connection. Anduin brightens, and the mug of coffee pressed in his palm nearly slips out of his grasp.

‘ _WRATHION._ ’

“My king,” Genn cuts in, grasping the top of his arm. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m—” Anduin sputters, setting down his mug and righting his tunic. “I’m sorry, Genn. I just...suddenly I’m feeling very dizzy. I’m not sure what came over me. Maybe the coffee…”

“Let me get you a chair. Guards,” the older king barks. “A chair, if you will. Right away.” With that, Genn slips out of Wrathion’s view, leaving only the glowing, scowling face of the king slumped over the edge of the war table. 

‘ _Did you really have to show me this now? What time is it there? Noon? One?_ ’

‘ _Two-thirty._ ’ Wrathion furrows his brow, resting his free hand atop his thigh. It is a mistake, for the muscle beneath him quiver, and his cock twitches, desperate to meet the brush of his wrist when he tugs his arm up and away. Wincing, he bites his tongue, and manages, through a labored breath. ‘ _Why? Why do you ask?_ ’

‘ _Don’t you have something else to be doing?_ ’ Anduin asks, though his expression has softened to one of mild concern. 

‘ _I most certainly do, yes, but that is the trouble,_ ’ the dragon admits, gazing down at himself with frustrated disdain. ‘ _Something is_ wrong _in me, I’m afraid. Very, very wrong._ ’

‘ _Wrong like how?_ ’ Anduin has stood up, and is now staring at a point on the opposite wall. 

‘ _Wrong like were I to have stayed another minute in the Heart Chamber, I fear Kalecgos would have jumped me and taken me right there._ ’

‘ _Excuse me?_ ’ Anduin picks up, then sets down his mug. ‘ _Is he—?_ ’

‘ _No, he is very much straight, and lovesick over your aunt, at that, but the body wants what the body wants._ ’

‘ _Light._ ’ 

‘ _Yes. Precisely._ ’

‘ _So will you—?_ ’ Whatever Anduin is about to ask is silenced by the opening and shutting of a door off to his left. The worgen king marches back into view, dragging a chair behind him with his bushy brows knit together. Forcing a smile, Anduin takes a step back and allows him to place the seat in front of him.

“Thank you, Genn.” The king smiles, limping in front of it and sinking down. He crosses his arms on the table and looks up at the older man standing with his palm wrapped around the chair’s wooden crown. 

After pulling the ends of his coat over his exposed sex and shoving his pipe and quill back into his tiny satchel, Wrathion murmurs, slowly and carefully, ‘ _I believe I should come to Stormwind._ ’

The king’s heart leaps. His cheeks flush, and he digs his fingers into a ridge on the table’s surface. ‘ _Like now?_ ’

‘ _Yes, like now, or as swiftly as I can obtain a port._ ’

‘ _But I’m—Wrathion, you can’t just barge into my meeting like this. I have royal matters to deal with all day._ ’

‘ _And normally I would be more than happy to respect your business, my dear, but unless you want me returning to you in two months’ time laden with Kalecgos’ offspring, I suggest you at least let me slip into your quarters—_ ’

‘ _—But I thought you said you were infertile?_ ’

‘ _I believe I am,_ ’ Wrathion admits, scooping up his vibrator and doing his best to wipe it with a plain square of cloth he keeps near his makeshift bed. ‘ _And yet I’d really rather not take my chances and find out. Don’t you agree?_ ’

‘ _I—_ ’ Anduin flusters and stares down into his lap. Genn mutters something about Nathanos Blightcaller, but Anduin’s thoughts churn too swiftly and violently to parse its meaning. 

With a sigh and a gentle shake of his head, and a hand pressed discreetly to the front of his blue cotton pants, the king yields. He trains his eyes on the table, but his thoughts call Wrathion, with his quivering legs and the wet spot between his thighs, back into focus. After a few careful breaths, he replies, quiet even in his thoughts:

‘ _My bedroom window is unlocked. If you land in the courtyard, you should be able to scale the lattice up to the parapet where we’ve met before. I’ll see you as soon as I’m done with this meeting._ ’

‘ _I’ll be looking forward to it, my dear,_ ’ Wrathion drawls, scooping up the last of his things and shoving them into his rucksack. A blush overcomes Anduin’s cheeks when Wrathion lifts up and rights his pants, and then he closes the connection with a gentle smile. Forcing himself up on buckling knees, he wipes his hands, grabs his belongings, and rushes out the flap of his tent and into the afternoon sun. 

Wet and hot and far from spent, he shifts and flaps his wings, propelling himself into the clouds. By the time he arrives at the front of the sword, the slit in his scales has parted and the skin beneath glistens with his growing arousal. As he lands and makes for the portal, he narrowly misses a green drake who is staring at him with flashing eyes. The sooner he can get into Anduin’s arms, the better. Until then, he will have to do what he can to avoid his kind, as embarrassing as that fact remains. 

Running his long nails through his hair and forcing his spine to straighten, he steps into the quivering, humming air that opens to the Boralan portal chamber. Another few steps and he arrives in Stormwind. His heart quickens, and the ache between his legs grows greater with every inch of white tile floor he crosses.

* * *

Every moment Anduin is away stretches on for an eternity. Even after the challenge of scaling the Keep in broad daylight and dragging himself through the small unlatched window beside the king’s bed, the ache between Wrathion’s legs hasn’t abated. He slithers under the sheets and balls up a pillow in his arm. His other hand slips into his pants, intending to readjust himself but ending up thumbing gently at his swollen lips.

By the time the door cracks open, the tips of his fingers are already wet and his face is pressed into the sheets to stifle a moan. The king pauses at the threshold and his cheeks light up. Turning away and clicking the latch back into place, he mumbles to the opposite wall. “Ah, don’t mind me. If you’re busy—”

“Not at all,” the dragon manages through a gasp, lifting his curly head from the pile of pillows. “P-please, ah, carry on, I’m simply—” 

His leg gives an involuntary twitch, rumbling the sheets and drawing the human’s gaze. His blue eyes dance, catching a beam of sun as it streams in through the unlocked window, and his hands clasp together in front of his simple blue trousers. 

He directs his gaze to the left of Wrathion’s left ear, and slowly declares, “I’m a little concerned about the state you’re in, Wrathion. Perhaps I should take a look.”

It is Wrathion’s turn to fluster, though he slips his hand out of his undershorts and pushes his back up the cluster of pillows. “Perhaps so.” He nods, trying to catch the human’s gaze. “I don’t know what happened, really. It came on suddenly, and has proven, ah, inconvenient at best.”

He looks down at his lap. The mattress dips, and Anduin joins him, crawling forward until only a few feet remain between them. When he sits back, Wrathion rolls down the blue silk duvet and exposes his legs. They stare at each other for a moment, before Anduin reaches for the waistband of his pants and rolls them down his hips and off his ankles and feet. 

A rush of cold air catches the wetness gathered in Wrathion’s slit. The scratches he left on his abdomen back in his tent have darkened, looking far more concerning than they feel. 

Anduin runs the pad of his thumb across them, before traveling down the thick trail of hair that fills out over his mound. Running his fingers through it, he toys with a thick, wet curl. His thumb strays lower, sweeping over his lips and against the side of his clit. 

His legs tighten; he throws back his head and gasps, and his hips lifting from the bed, rolling to meet the king’s agonizingly-gentle touch. “Ah—!” He gasps.

Anduin clears his throat, feigning business, but the deep crimson stain on his cheeks betrays him. 

“How long have you been like this?” 

“Since this morning, I believe. It started around nine, and it has only—ah— _progressed_ since about eleven.”

“I see. And nothing happened to arouse you?”

“Absolutely not!” Wrathion shakes his head, forcing his knees to stay pinned to the mattress when Anduin takes another pass against his swollen cock. “There is nothing the least bit arousing in the Heart Chamber, I can assure you.”

“Not one of the other dragons? Or a champion, maybe?”

“Anduin Wrynn, are you _jealous_?” Wrathion teases, despite the rising lump in his throat. 

Anduin blush shoots to the tips of his ears, and he shakes his head, his blond bangs flying about his face in his haste. “Well, my guess is you’ve gone into some kind of heat,” Anduin mumbles after a cough, cupping the palm of his hand around the dragon’s sex. “Though I may need to take a closer look, to confirm, you know…”

Wrathion quirks a brow. As much as his own body aches and quivers, the shake in Anduin’s fingers does not go unnoticed. Sliding down until his shoulders rest in the pillows, he spreads his legs around the king and flashes a smile, swallowing the lump in his own throat to titter, softly. 

“Of course. Please, continue.”

The king mutters something inaudible, sliding down until his breath ruffles the dragon’s thick hair. He rests his hands against his thighs and leans in, slipping his tongue between his folds and dragging it up, through his wetness, and along the underside of his swollen clit.

He stiffens, fingers flying to the bunched up blankets, twitching and gasping and sinking his teeth into his lower lip to stop the cry threatening to break through. Smoke curls from the corners of his mouth in its place, shimmering in the space above his head. Staring through it towards the blue-and-gold canopy, he shudders, a full body shudder that makes the bed springs squeak and groan beneath him. 

Anduin lets out a shy, but approving murmur, and flicks his tongue over his swollen head, lightly teasing back his hood. Another quiver and gasp escape him, and as Anduin tightens the fingers of one hand around the inside of his thigh to steady him, he brings the other to slide between his folds, spreading him and exposing him to another tingling rush of breath. 

The king catches either side of his dick and strokes its length, before wrapping his lips around it and giving a tentative suck. His muscles tighten, and heat pools in his lower abdomen, and as he digs his nails into the sheets and lifts his hips, he whimpers, embarrassingly desperate:

“ _More! Ah, Anduin—!_ ”

The king murmurs around him, the vibrations of it making him twitch against his tongue, and he whines. Wanting to snatch a pillow and bury his glowing face in it, he instead presses his palms to his face and fights to breathe. The king sucks, and he rolls his hips. The king licks, and his legs kick, unbidden, at the blankets. 

When Anduin chuckles softly, it feels far too good to make him angry. Dignity cast aside, he removes one hand from his face and threads it under the tie holding Anduin’s ponytail in place. His wispy hair slips between his fingers, and he tightens his grip, pushing the king down until the tip of his nose disappears between his thick curls.

“Fuck, yes, Anduin.” He temples his nails against the back of his head. “Suck me, please. Yes, ah—”

The king purses his lips and audibly sucks, up to the tip and back to where his length disappears inside him. When Wrathion glances down, he finds Anduin’s sparkling blue eyes half-lidded and his cheeks red with shyness, exertion, and the pleasure submitting like this always seems to bring him.

Encouraged, Wrathion spreads his legs and thrusts against him. The human slides his fingers from his dick to his lips and through them to pass over his hole. On the second stroke, two digits press together and sink in, with so little resistance the king’s brows arch and his eyes flutter open. The next time he enters, it is with greater resolve, tensing and curling up to stimulate him from within.

Wrathion’s toes dig into the sheets. He tilts back his head and gasps as another shock rolls through his body. When Anduin buries his blushing face in his slit, his legs fall open. When the king adds a third, then a fourth finger, he doesn’t need to stretch to accommodate him. 

It is only after his thumb presses in with the rest that he starts to feel full. Turning, hiding his face in his thick, tousled curls, he forces open his legs to give the king’s mouth better access to his cock. Anduin sucks, and his whole body tightens. He moves his hand, and the dragon clenches around him, shuddering, slamming his hips against his face.

The tightness in him releases with a cry. He falls back, his legs limp on either side of the king’s knees. After forcing air into his lungs and taking a moment to thread his nails back through his sweaty hair, Wrathion chances a glance in Anduin’s direction.

The king’s face glows crimson, and a noticeable wetness clings to his lips and his hand, which he wipes on the hem of his simple cloth shirt. 

“Oh—” Wrathion forces a laugh as the veil of euphoria starts to waver. “I, ah, these cycles, I apologize, I’m simply not used to—”

Anduin slides up the bed, silencing him with a hungry kiss. His wispy hair tumbles down the dragon’s cheeks, and his palms cup either side of his jaw, tilting it up to deepen their contact. The dragon blinks, his blown-out pupils narrowing to slits. Tasting himself on the other man’s lips, he flicks his tongue across them, as much to clean him as to stave off the pheromones lingering, palpable, in the air. 

The king only tightens his grip on him, pressing their hips together and rocking, the evidence of his arousal firm between Wrathion’s legs. It is so unlike him to move with this level of abandon. The dragon can’t help but wonder if the scent in the air is getting to him, too, mortal though he may be. 

The thought makes Wrathion fluster and loosen his grip on the king’s shoulders enough that Anduin can draw back and tug his shirt up and over his head. He reaches between their bodies to give his pants a tug to his knees, before wrapping his hands around his shaft and letting out a small gasp.

Wrathion watches him with half-lidded eyes, any concern he has for the king’s frantic state subsumed by the heat pooling between his lips at the brush of Anduin’s flesh between them. 

They rock together, once, and Anduin readjusts. His head rests against his opening, and with a single thrust, he sinks in up to the hilt. Relief floods Wrathion’s veins: a rightness that makes him open and cross his ankles loosely behind the king’s back.

When Anduin slides up to kiss him, he grasps tightly at the back of his shoulders. He rolls his own upper body off the pile of pillows, but Anduin gently nudges him back down, covering his thin silk undershirt with his lightly-muscled, and now bare chest. 

They sink together into the mattress, Anduin furrowing his brow and gasping, Wrathion pressing erratic kisses to his parted lips. When the king thrusts, Wrathion digs his nails into his skin. He seeks out the tip of his tongue and toys with it, blinking open his eyes to find Anduin’s staring back down at him, foggy and slightly too wide.

“I didn’t know this would affect you,” Wrathion admits, running the side of one hand up his face to sweep back his hair. “Are you all right? I don’t want you to, ah—”

“Wrathion,” Anduin murmurs, his voice ragged, and his breath stuttered, more acutely than usual.

“Hm?” 

“Just, just be quiet, okay,” the king replies, out of clever retorts. “I want you to—ah—”

He gives up whatever he is trying to say, instead claiming Wrathion’s lips in another desperate kiss that the dragon returns with equal ferocity. Anduin’s hips roll against his, and every time the king fills him, pressure builds where it unfurled moments before. 

Rutting onto him, the dragon peppers kisses up his ear, then down his jaw to his neck. Anduin whimpers, and his blush spreads from his face to his shoulders and down to his collarbone as it only tends to do when he is particularly taken aback, or hopelessly aroused. 

Wrathion suspects it to be some combination of the two. When Anduin slips his hands under the pillow on either side of Wrathion’s face, he lifts to rest their foreheads together, nuzzling his nose, exhaling a puff of smoke, and jerking to deepen his thrusts, until dampness leaks onto his thigh and the wet sounds of their joining break through the increasing volume of their breaths.

Anduin’s sac is flush against the swell of his cheeks. His heart pounds in his ear, and when they move, their knees knock together, gently at first, but soon firmly enough that a prickle of unvoiced concern grows in the back of Wrathion’s mind.

Without warning, he grasps the king’s shoulders and rolls him off and onto his side. He drapes his thigh around his waist and sinks back down on him, the new angle drawing a gasp of surprise from both of their lips. Anduin wedges his face up under Wrathion’s beard, and Wrathion nuzzles his hair. This time, his thrusts set the pace. 

Anduin’s cock slips out to the head and fills him, again, with no resistance. He twitches inside him, and Wrathion aches for more: more pressure, more stretch, more _something_ that he can’t pin down but feels viscerally down to his core.

His eyes flick to his bag left abandoned at the base of the furthest bedpost, its flap hanging open, and a particular item peeking out from between a balled up red scarf and a flask of whiskey. 

“Anduin?” He murmurs, bending his leg to force the king deeper inside of him.

With half-lidded eyes and a bleary smile, the human lifts his head and regards him gently. “Hm?”

“I would like to...try something new, if you’re up to it.” Wrathion’s own cheeks warm; with every word, his chest tightens, realizing how this might come across. 

With the king still buried inside him, he clenches, and draws a gasp from the man’s lips. He kisses his temple and nips at the curve of his ear, before whispering, slowly, “I’d like you to put my toy inside me, and...thrust in with it, as if you’re, you know—”

“Do you think it will fit?” The king arches his brow, squirming, changing the angle of pressure in Wrathion just enough to make his thighs quiver.

“I’m quite certain it will. If your hand, well—”

“Okay.” Anduin nods, rolling out of his grasp. His cock slides out and leaves a regretful ache in its wake, but when Anduin returns from the edge of the bed, it is with Wrathion’s thick, red and gold prosthetic cock clutched in his fist. 

His eyes move down Wrathion’s body, and he brightens to nearly the shade of the item itself. “In the same hole?”

“Yes,” Wrathion whispers, tearing his gaze from the king’s face to focus on the silk sheets beside him. “The same one.”

“All right.” Anduin swallows. Bringing the pointed tip to Wrathion’s folds, he rubs and presses in. It sinks, its ridged shaft stimulating him with every inch he takes. His thighs shake, another jolt passing through him when Anduin repositions it to the back of his hole.

The king then slides up, draping his own leg carefully over Wrathion’s thigh and wrapping his palm around his cock. He nudges against the swollen tip of Wrathion’s clit, and when his body shudders in response he draws him closer. 

He moves down to Wrathion’s opening and presses against him above the prosthesis. The dragon gasps. Anduin sucks down an audible breath and shifts. 

His cock forces its way between Wrathion’s heated flesh and the toy, and he rolls forward, controlling his hips whenever he meets resistance and burying his face against the curve of the other man’s neck.

His breath feels hot and wet against Wrathion’s beard. The stretch draws a groan from Wrathion’s lips, and he closes his eyes, willing his breath to steady and the heat building in the back of his throat to cool. After a few careful thrusts, Anduin is seated inside him. After a few more, they grow firmer and more erratic. 

When Wrathion rolls his hips, the toy’s ridges drag along the underside of Anduin’s shaft. The dragon tenses, and Anduin kisses at his collarbone visible through the neckline of his light undershirt. 

Anduin’s fingers skate up under it, along the scars running up his sides, and Wrathion lets out a series of gasps in draconic even he can’t piece together. The tightness and the pressure working him open sates the need that has built in him since those desperate moments on the floor of his tent in the desert.

Anduin thrusts, and his body yields. The toy stretches him, and he lifts his hips from the bed, angling them to keep it wedged inside. Anduin hides his flustered face. A low moan quivers against Wrathion’s neck, followed by a cry, soft and breathy, that sends goosebumps prickling down the back of Wrathion’s neck.

Something inside him clenches, suddenly, and he tightens around the king. The side of his head digs into the pillow, and his lower half goes rigid, his juices leaking down his thigh and onto the bed when Anduin slides out and in.

The king twitches and his fingers dig into Wrathion’s sides. His cry comes louder, and thick with lust, and even though he bites down on his lip at the end, he can’t catch it before it echoes off every wall of the chamber. Squeezing closed his eyes, he jerks forward, and comes hard into the dragon’s heat. 

Wrathion feels the obvious twitch of it, and the shudder that moves through the human and passes into him. Anduin’s head slumps against his shoulder, and his body bows in. Wrathion wraps an arm around him to keep him steady, but his hips keep rocking of their own accord. A groan, then a whine, pourfrom Anduin’s lips, and he looks up, flushed and spent, his bangs clinging to his forehead, creased with concern. 

“Are you—?” He manages.

Wrathion averts his gaze. “I’m still….unfortunately, it seems my body doesn’t want to stop. I am sorry.”

Anduin smiles, a soft, almost innocent smile. Dragging himself from Wrathion’s arms, he looks down at him and slides a hand between their legs. “I can keep going. With your cock, at least. If you’d like.”

Wrathion nods. He hopes the gratefulness of his smile will convey what his voice fails to communicate. 

Anduin rests their foreheads together, and slips his own flagging cock out of the dragon’s heat. Wrathion feels bereft of its presence, too open, and wetter than he cares to admit. But when the human’s fingers close around the base of his prosthetic and turn it to change the angle, any lack is quickly forgotten.

Its head probes deeper into him and its ridges drag along his inner wall. When Anduin slides it back, the remnants of his release leak down his slit, and when he re-enters, the dragon’s body shakes and smoke pours from his open mouth. 

“Ah—! Anduin, yes!”

Anduin kisses his shoulder through the silk he wears, and eases the toy back out. After a few more wet thrusts, and a tired gasp against Wrathion’s neck, the human finds the strength to slam it in with his open palm, and Wrathion’s whole body clenches hard enough to keep it inside. 

Heat erupts in the depths of his lower abdomen. His head hits the bed hard enough to make it groan, and his back arches. His toes scratch at the sheets and his fingers fly to Anduin’s now-sloppy ponytail. With a tug, he comes, harder than he’s ever come in his life. 

His whole body tightens, then melts into the puddle he’s left on the sheets. Shaking, and gasping, and biting on his lower lip, he loses track of everything but the pressure of Anduin’s body against his and the relief flooding through his mortal form from head to feet. 

The next thing he knows, Anduin has removed the toy and has nudged him over a foot or two into a cleaner spot on the bed. The king has his head propped in his left hand and his elbow wedged between two pillows to the left of Wrathion’s fanned out hair. 

A small smile quivers at the corners of the human’s lips, and his pale skin burns. His gaze darts from Wrathion’s rising chest to his face and back again, before he asks, gently, “Should I...can I get anything for you, Wrathion? A towel, some water…”

The human trails off when Wrathion offers a sloppy grin. He rolls onto his back, his gaze moving to the blue and gold canopy above while he takes time to catch his breath. 

It is only when the bed groans that he realizes Anduin is moving even without a request from him. Swimming through the pleasant haze that has overcome him, Wrathion catches his shoulder and draws him into an embrace. 

After a moment of uncertain resistance, the human yields, sinking into his arms. Finally, after swallowing and summoning his strength, drawing his trembling legs together, and focusing on the gold shapes above, Wrathion manages to explain:

“Ah, no, my dear. I’m quite all right. Just, please, stay with me a moment, if you will. I just want to be near you right now.”

“Of course.” Anduin nods, planting a gentle kiss against his collarbone. A pleasant contentment, a rightness that knows no shame, overcomes the dragon, lulling him and the king in his arms into a pleasant, and well earned, sleep.


End file.
